


John Irving's Guide to Dating For The Recently Closeted

by spookywriter



Series: The John Irving Diaries [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety Attacks, As you do, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but there will probably be debauchery in later chapters, hoo boy, i'm back on my bullshit, i'm out here repping the rarest of rarepairs, live fast die young baby, mild crack, projecting my anxiety disorder onto fictionalized naval officers, tags will be updated as I figure out what I'm trying to do here, the MA is because Tozer can't watch his fkn mouth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-17 08:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14828861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywriter/pseuds/spookywriter
Summary: In which Irving continues to have a crisis, Fitzjames develops an unhealthy obsession with Irving's love life, Hickey revamps his plans of devious seduction, and Crozier is the only normal person in this fic.Because you guys asked for a sequel and I, like Irving, am incapable of resisting temptation.





	1. Chapter 1

There’s a good chance that James is the worst husband in the entirety of England, but that’s a risk he’s willing to take to stay up to date with _Sex and the City: The John Irving Diaries_. It’s a shame, because it took him a full week to convince Francis to go somewhere nice this year, rather than getting fish and chips at The Wardroom (yet again), and he looks particularly handsome in his new suit. But as they’re ordering their appetizers, James’s phone vibrates in his pocket. And it keeps vibrating sporadically all throughout the first and second courses, until finally he has no choice but to give in to its siren song.

Francis raises an eyebrow as he reaches for his phone, but doesn’t comment. James is sure he’s been watching the lengthy struggle against temptation play across his face, and has seen this coming for some time. All the same, he feels bad about it.

“Francis…” he begins cautiously.

“Check your bloody texts, James.”

He needs no more encouragement. As expected, they’re from Graham. All twenty-seven of them. He scrolls through, so gripped by the saga that he doesn’t notice Francis calling the waiter over.

John has been missing all day. He isn’t answering his phone. His easel is missing. Sophia Cracroft spotted him by the dock at approximately 11 o'clock with Cornelius Hickey, but his whereabouts after that point are unclear. This is better than any of the soaps he and Francis watch semi-ironically on lazy Saturdays.

 

James: I’m pretty sure we know where he is ;)

 

He looks up from his phone when Francis nudges him under the table with his knee. “Come on, I paid the cheque. Tell Graham to meet us at The Wardroom.”

“If we weren’t already married, I would propose to you right now.”

“If you proposed to me right now, I would say no.”

James grins. “Oh, come on, you’re delighted. Celebrating our anniversary at the pub is a tradition five years in the making.”

 

~

 

“Well, fuck me,” is the first thing Solomon says afters they leave Hickey’s flat, which, considering the situation at hand, is maybe the worst possible way of expressing that particular sentiment. After this catastrophe, John is determined to not so much as hold hands with a man without first completing a thorough background check. And he is certainly not going to be engaging in the sort of conduct Solomon is alluding to for some time.

They stand outside the redbrick building, a few feet apart. Solomon glowers down at the parched grass coming up through cracks in the sidewalk while John contemplates the pedestrians passing by, wondering if they can sense the shame radiating off of him.

He should have known something like this would happen. Nothing good could possibly have come from this situation, least of all for John Irving. He would make a good martyr if he wasn’t so susceptible to unholy temptation—God’s plan for him seems to consist of a long chain of disappointments preceded by brief flashes of hope, all of this peppered with catastrophic social humiliations. And the occasional cake. Speaking of which, the thought of what his flatmates must be doing at this very moment is almost too much to bear. Putting up streamers? Inviting his entire graduating class over for drinks? Penning a personal invitation to their flat to Elton John?

“I’m sorry for…” John begins, unsure of how to properly encapsulate the utter insanity of the past week, much less the past hour. His ears still burn at the thought of Cornelius’s so-called compromise. Yes, there had been the biblical Solomon with his 700 wives and 300 concubines, but _really_ , that's no excuse for… That is, there is a certain point where not even the Bible can justify such flagrant sin.

He settles on, “I’m sorry about all that.”

Solomon lets out a huff of laughter. “Yeah.”

He leans back against the wall, still holding onto the bouquet—he mentioned something about paying an arm and a leg for it—and John is mildly curious about what he plans on doing with it.

“Want to get plastered somewhere?” Solomon asks.

John hesitates. Granted, he could use a drink. He’s been contemplating a mug of herbal tea, enjoyed while lying in fetal position on the sofa and watching Hallmark movies until his vision swims. The proper thing to do would be to leave immediately and sink back into denial, not that there’s any established etiquette for this type of situation, as far as he knows. But, then again, Solomon _did_ ask. And he can’t yet stomach the thought of explaining this turn of events to his roommates.

So he tries to smile and says, “I’d like that,” in a way that he hopes sounds casual but almost certainly does not.

“Alright,” says Solomon. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, he’s in the passenger seat of Solomon’s rental car, listening to Solomon swear under his breath at the traffic, all the while struggling to figure out what to do with his hands and wondering whether this was a good idea after all and should he try to make small talk?

He is struck by the difference between himself and Solomon. He loses count trying to keep track out ever time Solomon blasphemes, whereas John is, well, _John._  Solomon is a good few inches taller than him, and certainly more fit. Judging by the pair of them, Cornelius has no discernible type. Or, alternatively, he does have a type, which is not John Irving. Which makes him think that maybe Cornelius was never interested in him in the first place beyond the appeal of a challenging conquest (and John didn’t make it particularly challenging for him, he thinks ruefully), and probably Cornelius doesn’t care about him in the least, and why is he in this car again?

“I should leave,” he mumbles, tugging at his seat belt. His heart is pounding in a distinctly unpleasant way, and his lungs don’t seem to be working properly.

Solomon glances at him, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “What’s wrong?”

John isn’t entirely sure. “I’m sorry to be a bother, but I think—I think I might be dying?”

“Shit,” says Solomon. “Alright. Um. I’m going to pull over somewhere, but until then, try to breathe, okay? Deep breaths.”

“I’m trying,” he snaps. “If I could breathe, I wouldn’t be dying.”

“Okay, that’s fair.” He slams the horn as someone cuts him off, and John flinches. “Sorry. Okay, why don’t you tell me about… painting? Is that what you do?”

“Yes. Erm. I’ve been painting for ten years.”

Solomon makes an encouraging sound.

“And a child of God for th—” he shakes his head. “That’s my—that’s what I say when I start my lessons. I might have to consider changing it. Although my flatmate gave me a booklet about—” John is going to die as he lived: babbling like a fool. “I have my master’s in art education. I was a double-major in illustration and religious studies.”

“Good for you. I never went to college. Maybe someday, though.”

“You’re a marine?”

“Yeah.”

John nods, trying to think of something remotely intelligent to say. His brain can’t manage it. Maybe if he just... recites the Lord’s Prayer? Will God forgive him for his sins? All things considered, Cornelius did have some interesting theological arguments last night, and he may have a point... 

The car makes a sharp turn, and a few moments pass before it comes to a stop. John tries to make sense of his surroundings. They’re in a parking lot, and the smell of grease permeates the car. He thinks they’re behind a Burger King.

Solomon clumsily turns around in his seat so that they are more or less seated face to face. (Some part of John is conscious of the fact that Solomon hasn’t been wearing a seat belt this whole time, and is aghast at the sheer disregard for the law, particularly in a military man.)

“Do you want some air?”

John shrugs. (Yes, John, very helpful.)

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” says Solomon, brow furrowed. “If I ever see Cornelius again, I’m going to kick his scrawny ass.”

“Oh,” says John. "Thank you?" 

A moment of clarity: he is, in fact, having a panic attack in the parking lot of a Burger King in his maybe-ex-boyfriend’s definitely-ex-boyfriend’s car. And no wonder. The upside is that he, despite all indications to the contrary, is probably not dying. The downside is that he is going to live.

“It’ll be over soon. Promise. And then I’ll drop you off wherever you want to go.”

He groans, placing his head in his hands. “I can’t tell my flatmates. They’ll get me another cake.”

“Another what, now?”

“Never mind.”

A heartbeat passes. Or, an interval of time that would be equivalent to a normal person’s heartbeat, but is instead approximately three of John’s.

“What kind if things do you like to paint?”

“Nature,” he says. “Flowers and grass and... and the sea.” His brow creases as he tries to think. “Trees?”

Solomon nods, looking as if this is the most fascinating conversation he has had in years. “Do you ever… do you show your work at galleries?”

John nods. He is now fairly certain that Solomon is trying to distract him, but he is equally aware of the fact that his heart rate is slowing and the tightness in his chest is dissipating. He also realizes, with some embarrassment, that he has been gripping Solomon’s hand for an indeterminate period of time—long enough that the muscles are cramped when he finally extracts it.

“Thank you,” says John.

It doesn't feel sufficient. He barely knows the man—and what little they know of each other is not exactly conducive to lifelong friendship—but, for whatever reason, Solomon helped him through one of the most difficult moments of—well, not his life, or this week either, for that matter, but of the day, at least  

Solomon nods. “Want some fries?”

As Solomon orders two chocolate milkshakes and a large order of fries at the drive-though, John comes to a horrifying realization. 

“That's how it started with Cornelius. I was having a panic attack in a bathroom at a church. I—I may have called him a devious seducer.”  

Solomon seems to understand. “Well, I'm not about to screw you and then screw you over, so you don't have anything to worry about.”

John certainly hopes not. He looks around vainly for some wood to knock on. 

“Sorry, sir, what was that?” says the tired-sounding teenager over the drive-through microphone.

John and Solomon exchange a glance, the both of them red-faced.

“Nothing. Um, that will be all." 

(And that is the story of how John discovered that Thomas Evans worked at Burger King and considered, not for the first time, fleeing the country.)

 

~

 

“Is that John?” says Graham.

They have been in the pub for nearly an hour, doing a thorough review of their evidence as well as some in-depth social media reconnaissance. Francis has looked desperately bored since they arrived, but James feels only slightly sorry for him. He is far too intent on the task at hand—he has priorities, is all, and at the moment, this is the most pressing of them.  

James cranes his head to look. “Where?”

“Two o’clock. He’s passing by the windows. I don’t think he’s coming in.”

Francis sighs, and James is certain he’s taken years off his husband’s life in the past twenty-four hours. He promises himself he’ll make it up to him later.

“It’s John,” he confirms, catching sight of him through the window. Then he frowns. “Who’s he with? That’s not Hickey.”

James has never seen this man in his life, but there John is, walking side by side with him and talking animatedly. John is actually smiling, which is about as anomalous as Francis managing to take a picture on his mobile without accidentally covering the lens with his finger. (His stepson, Jopson, now takes outfit photos for him.)

Graham turns to look at James, eyebrows drawn in confusion, and they share a silence exchange. “Do we—do we need a different cake?”

Solemnly, James nods. “I’ll call Mr. Diggle and tell him to cancel the order.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are misunderstandings involving rings, dating, and platypuses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter tried to murder me in cold blood but I lived, bitch

Cornelius Hickey isn't in the habit of being screwed over. He's never the underdog, not if he can help it. And so when Solomon storms out of his flat, shepherding John out like the lost lamb he is, he immediately begins thinking of ways to claw his way out of this hole he has dug himself into.

First, he takes all of Solomon’s belongings out of his dresser drawer and deposits them in a local dumpster, in lieu of burning them, which would be his preferred method of revenge. But, second, he formulates his plan.

Cornelius sees where he’s gone wrong. It’s a matter of overconfidence. _Yes, Cornelius, let’s invite John Irving, self-professed child of God, to a threesome. You’re a brilliant man, Mr. Hickey._ He made a bold play where he should have made excuses, ought to have sweet-talked Solomon (or John, whoever would be more receptive) into staying. _It was a mistake, I never should have lied to you, I feel terrible, let me take you out to dinner and we’ll talk all this through, I love you, don’t leave me,_ etc., etc.

It’s too late for all that.

At least he still has Billy—Billy, who has been clamoring for a proposal for nearly a year now. Billy, who is not particularly bright, and could probably walk in on Cornelius sucking John Irving’s dick and write it off as a very much platonic male bonding ritual. Billy, whose shift at the bakery ends at five, which means that Cornelius has a very limited amount of time to clean up his mess.

If only fucking Billy Gibson had been at the door, and not Solomon Tozer. What kind of man showed up at your flat after a year apart without so much as a warning? It was Solomon’s fault, really. If he hadn’t wanted to stumble upon something he didn’t want to see, he should have given Cornelius some bloody notice.  

Now, a less ambitious man would cut his losses, delete Solomon and John’s numbers, and go ring shopping. He loves Billy, he does, in an utterly passionless and obligatory way. The kind of begrudging love you feel for a rheumy-eyed old dog with halitosis and kidney stones. He enjoys the constancy Billy brings to his life, but, then again, he feels the same way about the cheap floral loveseat he’s had since college. All the same, he doesn’t cherish the thought of losing him.

It’s time, then, instead, to consolidate his commodities, his primary commodity being Billy Gibson. There will be time to make amends later—in fact, if he plays his cards right, he wouldn’t be surprised if John finished that portrait of him by the end of the week. Solomon is more of a lost cause. He had assumed that his uniform was indicative of an empty-headed man who wanted nothing more than to be lead, but, to Cornelius’s endless disappointment, he had proved more than once to be deceptively perceptive. There is a reason why dim-witted men are his type.

As he finalizes his plans, Cornelius feels a wave of relief wash over him. He stretches luxuriously, feeling sure that the Earth is back on its proper orbit and he, once again, is the master of his own life. A glance at the clock tells him that Billy will be here any minute now. Cornelius never formally agreed to this arrangement—of Billy sleeping over at his flat more often than his own—but he has grown accustomed enough to it that he’s come to enjoy the routine. He removes any incriminating evidence from his room, and then settles onto the loveseat to watch Netflix and eat the pizza that has been growing cold since he, Solomon, and John had been so rudely interrupted by the actual delivery man. He’ll leave the Hawaiian for Billy, who shares John’s subpar tastes.

Twenty minutes pass before he hears the doorbell ring.

“It’s Billy,” he announces.

“One moment, love.”

He gathers himself as he walks to the door, running his fingers through his hair and softening the scowl that’s been occupying his face for the past few hours. When he opens the door, he makes a show of kissing Billy on the cheek.

“How was work?”

Billy shakes his head, looking somewhere between amused and horrified. “You wouldn’t believe the order we got today,” he says, draping his flour-dusted apron over Cornelius’s one good armchair. “Do you happen to know any Johns? Because I’d love to know the story behind these cakes people have been ordering.”

“Billy,” says Cornelius, who is not particularly interested in Billy and his cakes when he has far more pressing issues to attend to, “I have something to ask you.”

As expected, Billy’s face lights up and he freezes. “Cornelius…”

“Shh. Hold out your hand and close your eyes.”

He obliges, and Cornelius, smiling, retrieves the spare key to the flat from his pocket and presses it into Billy’s hand.

“Billy Gibson,” he says, “will you move in with me?”

Billy’s eyes open wide, and he looks down at the key. His smile wavers, and then falls. “Of course,” he says.

Satisfied, Cornelius pecks Billy on the lips, which, given his height, is an admirable feat. “I’ll help you move your things this weekend, love,” he says, dusting powdered sugar of Billy’s shirt. “Oh, and there’s pizza in the kitchen. I got Hawaiian for you. I know it’s your favorite.”

 

~

 

John is almost afraid to say it—no, actually, he is _terrified_ by the prospect—but he hasn’t had such a good time in years. He can’t remember the last time he laughed this hard, not including the fit of hysterical laughter he suffered approximately two hours earlier in Cornelius’s flat, and the one before that the night before in his own sitting room, and, before that…

He isn’t even sure why. All they’ve done is walk aimlessly through the city, just talking, both of them trying to stall their eventual return home. John’s new loafers are beginning to rub horribly, and it’s gotten cold now that the sun is set, but he keeps on coming up with excuses. He’s not _very_ cold, only a little. Besides, he doesn’t want to go back to the flat and explain this whole disaster to his roommates. And he could always use a little exercise. A brisk walk is just what he needs after the overindulgence of the holidays, and, besides, some fresh air is always good for the mind and soul, and it has nothing to do with the fact that Solomon Tozer is beside him. Nothing at all. He hardly notices him at all, is barely aware of his kind blue eyes, the warm rumble of his laughter, the way he keeps brushing his overlong hair out of his face, almost self-consciously. John Irving is not staying out before Solomon is here, and he is certainly not in denial.

“...and that,” he finds himself saying, “is why blueberry pie is forbidden at all church picnics in the county without explicit approval from a pastor.”

He doesn’t actually recall telling that story—it’s a rather embarrassing one, and not one that puts him in a good light—but he sees the lopsided smile on Solomon’s face and he doesn’t feel as horribly embarrassed about it as he could.

“Thank you,” says John after a few minutes pass between them in silence. “This must all so much harder for you. I mean—that is—I’ve only known him for a week.”

Solomon nods, seeming to consider this. “It’s not all bad,” he responds, darting a glance over at John. If he blushes, it’s difficult to tell beneath his beard.

 _Is this considered flirting_? John thinks it might be, and the thought is horrifying. No, it can’t be. He had made it very clear to God in the private grace he said in the Burger King drive-through that, as much as he was grateful to God for this food and His many other blessings, it would be appreciated if he was not forced to handle another failed relationship for quite some time. God knows his thoughts on the matter. God is good. Ergo, Solomon Tozer is not flirting with him.

Mind temporarily set to rest, John lets himself be lead blindly through the familiar streets, and for a few blissful minutes there is nothing wrong in the world. And then Solomon speaks, which is fine, but then _John_ speaks, and thus ends his small respite from the torment of daily life.

“Look,” Solomon says after some time, “I’m not sure how to say this, but I’ve had a lot more fun today than I should, considering the clusterfuck that happened earlier.” He rubs his neck, looking almost as distressed as John feels at any given moment. “Do you want to—?”

“Yes,” says John, before he can think better of it. “I’d love to.”

Solomon seems taken aback. “What did you think I was going to ask?”

“Um,” is his response. _John Irving, patron saint of idiots and fools._ “A—a date?”  

(There are many reasons why John does not believe in guardian angels, chief among them the fact that they have no basis in the Bible. However, the fact alone that he says the things he does without being smited by some holy and protective force is evidence enough that they do not exist.)

“Shit, I'm sorry.” John feels his heart drop down out of his chest and hit the ground between his feet with a wet smack. “I wasn’t trying to lead you on. It's just—it's too soon.”

“I understand. I—gosh, I'm so sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed—would you look at the time—I have to—” John is beginning to understand the appeal of the self-flagellation “—I have to polish my… platypus.”

“John…”

Before he can embarrass himself any further, John walks as quickly as he can in the opposite direction, only part of him hoping that Solomon will follow. It was all a horrible mistake, and an embarrassment, and, frankly, he ought to have adapted the same outlook he had with Cornelius and not assumed anything about anyone’s interest in him unless he was quite literally and unambiguously being propositioned for sex. This is what he deserves. It is his penance. He never should have let any of this happen, never should have opened his door to disaster, never should have let his roommates egg him on…

Oh, God, his _roommates._

_Are you there, God? It's me, John Irving..._

 

~

 

If James had any sort of entrepreneurial spirit, he would have capitalized on the shitshow that was John Irving's daily life in a heartbeat. There was drama, there was romance, there was heavily implied off-screen sex. Give him some coaching and a complete makeover, and John could carry a show better than any Kardashian. 

Instead, he sits on the couch, leaning heavily on Francis, sipping from and occasionally gesturing with a brimming glass of watery rosé. 

“What about a platypus?” says Edward, frowning. 

John only shakes his head, cradling his own drink to his chest. He looks to be on the verge of tears, although maybe it's just his face. 

“So you mean to tell me” says James, "that your Mr. Right—your Prince Charming—your... Mr. Darcy thinks you own a platypus?"

“He’s not my—I'm sure he knows—”

George, slumped over on the couch opposite James and Francis, sighs. “I simply cannot... _believe_ I’m associating with someone who doesn't know the difference between a monotreme and a marsupial,” he says, voice slurred. "A marsupial, for instance, a kangaroo, gives birth to live young, whereas a monotreme, such as a platypus..." 

“Listen, John.” James leans forward, and is only saved from falling forward by Francis’s steadying hand on his shoulder. “You need to get your man. Francis, tell him.”

Francis, who looks as if he is carrying the world on his shoulders, lets out a defeated sigh. “You need to go get your man.”

“Precisely. And to do that..." James pauses for emphasis. "The deviously seduced must become the devious seducer."  


End file.
